


Tear You Apart

by foona



Category: British RPF, Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: Addiction, Dark, Explicit Sexual Content, Guns, Kinky, Mafia AU, Master/Slave, Mild Daddy Kink, Mob AU, Multi, Non-Mary Sue, Public Sex, Rape/Non-con - Freeform, Reader-Insert, Recreational Drug Use, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-20
Updated: 2015-10-20
Packaged: 2018-04-27 05:44:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5036074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foona/pseuds/foona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life as an experienced member of a crime syndicate has never been as glamorous as advertised in movies. When TWH, a rising mob boss buys you into his gang, the ever darker corners of humanity begins to consume you. Will the drugs, alcohol and violence kill you? or will the unpredictable and possessive TWH get to you first? A tale of romance that's rough at the edges - an uncensored, and explicit look into the dirty world of organized crime and lust.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tear You Apart

**Author's Note:**

> This fic's vibe is based on She Wants Revenge's song - Tear You Apart. I highly recommend you listening to that first in order to get a feel of what this is going to be like. The ethnicity of the reader is ambiguous in this story, since it spans all around the globe. 
> 
> Just saying, this is not factually correct sometimes (I'm not sure, since I haven't experienced any of these things) and isn't based on a real life gang/event etc. This is purely fictional and a new 'world' crafted for the purpose of this story.

_“I want to hold you close_  
Soft breath, beating heart  
As I whisper in your ear  
I want to fucking tear you apart”

**Shinjuku, Tokyo**

 

Rain is falling steadily on the dark and dirty pavement of an alleyway. You walk quickly, hands in your pockets, avoiding stares. There is a certain disgust you feel for yourself sometimes, when in the dark of night or in the lull of afternoons you think of what your life has become. A little partying and debt repayment has led to this, a life of crime syndicate, drugs and illicit activities. Perhaps this is just the way your life was meant to be, and there is absolutely no shame in that. Some people grow up to be lawyers or doctors and please their parents, and you, well you’re you.

You read the address written in a slanted cursive font on a tiny piece of crumpled paper. A kushiyaki bar with a bright neon sign written in Japanese seems to be the place you’re supposed to go to. Quietly, you slip pass the wooden doors and into the commotion of men and women drinking, smoking and laughing. Instinctively, you pull the hood of your jacket closer around your face, despite knowing no one probably cares about your presence. 

There is a standard, unspoken rule of drop offs: you must be discrete, non-invasive and you must never ever hand over the goods before counting the money. This has happened only once to you, thankfully, and the near-death experience that followed is something you don’t feel like repeating in a lifetime. To any rookie in the game, this bar is the same like any other – no overtly obvious secret door in the back with two burly men guarding it. You, however, know better.

Sitting down on one of the barstools, you motion for the bartender to pour you a scotch on the rocks. You’ll need something strong in case anything goes wrong. As the old Japanese man hands you your drink, you carefully slip a small piece of paper into his hand. The man turns to wipe the dirty glasses among the rows of liquor bottles, as he reads your note. The note is simple; it shows “TWH” on a dark red crest. The bartender turns back to you, picks up your half empty scotch glass and walks towards the kitchen. After waiting a few seconds, you follow him, eventually finding him waiting in front of dirty forest-green double doors. 

You nod politely at the man, taking the piece of paper back from him. Before you enter, the Japanese man pats you down for weapons, and after deeming you safe, opens the door. If you did not just pass through a bustling kitchen to get to this room, you would have assumed it’s part of the actual bar. The room is dimly lit, with neon lights decorating the ceiling and small broken lamps on the tables. There is a long sofa lining the back of the room, where several people are lounging with cigarettes and drinks. Lines of cocaine cover the table tops, and the smell of weed permeates the room. The man in the middle of the sofa beckons you to come closer, pointing to the table. You shake your head sternly, mouthing the word “money” to him. The man with dark ray-bans and brown slick-backed hair smirks, scoffing at the fact that you feel the need to teach him how to do this. He motions for one of his men to hand you the large envelope of cash. Slowly, you sit on one of the smaller chairs and count the money inside. A hundred grand, yep. 

You smile at the man in the middle; he is obviously whoever TWH would be if that were even a name. Carefully, you take the package out of your hoodie and place it on the table in front of him. TWH makes no move of even acknowledging you did this, only continuing to stare at you predatorily. The woman beside him, a beautiful red head in a form fitting bright green dress cuddles up closer to him, her mauve lips brushing against his neck. 

Your job is technically done here, so you nod at TWH in thanks and walk towards the door.

“Wait,” TWH’s voice calls out. He sounds drunk.

You stop dead in your tracks and turn around to face him, cocking one of your eyebrows to question him. The man stands from his seat, leaving his ginger eye candy to finally sit back and relax herself. He beckons you to come closer and picks up the package on the table. TWH hands the thick manila envelope to you. 

“Do you know what’s inside?” TWH asks.

You shake your head, weighing the package in your hands. “Not much of a talker are you?” TWH scoffs, taking the package back from you. He rips the seal open with precision and takes out a bundle of documents wrapped in a zip-lock bag. TWH hands the stack of documents back to you and asks, “Look familiar?” 

These documents are perhaps the most familiar and dear things to your heart. Among them there is your real birth certificate, your falsified one, your five passports (American, British, Japanese, French and Indonesian), your contract and legal papers for your assets. Your jaw tightens at the sight, looking back at the man in front of you with a cold and calculating stare.

TWH looks back at you, his expression clearly amused. Suddenly, he breaks into laughter. “Oh, (y/n) you should see your face right now. It’s absolutely precious,” he manages between peals of laughter. You don’t find this amusing in the slightest. Why did your boss deliver the most important things to you to this man? This man that you haven’t even heard of until last week.

“Why do you have this?” your voice is dangerously low. 

TWH puts an arm around your shoulder and guides you back to his seating position. You reluctantly sink into the plush sofa, making sure to leave some space between you and the redhead. She looks friendly enough, not particularly intimidating or snide unlike most of the men in the room.

“(y/n) this is Jezebel,” TWH introduces. The woman looks at you and smiles genuinely, offering a hand for you to shake.

You laugh internally, wondering why you still don’t have an alias. “Real name’s Jessica,” the woman whispers in your ear. TWH sits beside you, his arm once again snaking around your shoulders. He smiles at you, attempting to create a rapport, however you feel more uncomfortable under his gaze.

“Can you just answer me?” you ask impatiently.

TWH chuckles lowly, nodding his head. “Do you know what your task was?” 

“Yeah, it’s a drop,” you state matter-of-factly.

“ _What_ were you supposed to drop?” TWH remarks teasingly.

“The package…” you reply, getting increasingly impatient with this man.

TWH shares a look with Jezebel, as if it should be the most obvious thing right now.

“Oh my fucking God, _you’re_ the drop,” TWH laughs.

“What?” you exclaim, jumping from your seat and away from the group of people.

“What’s wrong?” TWH asks, clearly amused at your fright.

“No… Am I… Am I being transferred? But why? I was doing so well…”

“It has nothing to do with you. Do you even think you’re all that important in the food chain?” 

Jezebel laughs. Wait, you mentally correct yourself – Jessica. You don’t know why but it feels wrong to refer to her, even in your head as Jezebel. It’s a name bestowed upon her by this lifestyle, it dehumanizes her.

"No I just want to know why,” you bitterly reply.

“It’s, _you're_ , a… gift from Him,” TWH explains. ‘Him’ is your current boss. You’ve never met him, and your sole means of communication is through various local higher-ranking bosses. These local bosses may feel a sense of superiority, but everyone knows these men cower in fear when _He_ asks questions.

“For what? It’s not like he owes you one. Who are you anyway?” you ask, cynically. You know full well that your tone could mean your demise, but at this point you’re too incredulous to care. 

TWH laughs again, throwing back a shot. “What do you know about _him_?” he sneers.

“Nothing, I suppose,” you muse. 

“All right enough of this, here,” TWH hands you a sheet of paper, which you identify to be your contract. One of his goons hand you a pen to sign with.

The contract is simple, similar to the one you had with _Him_. You are legally bound to the syndicate for life or until you are transferred to another one. There are a list of rights you are entitled to, such as healthcare, certain personal privileges and suicide in the event of being captured. Your identity is henceforth erased and able to be legally changed by TWH at any time. He is your superior in every way and any acts of rebellion of violation of your contract will result in a punishment deemed appropriate by either a supervisor or TWH himself. The rest is all just technicalities and unimportant fine print. The only part you are sort of uncomfortable about is the fact that you are required to carry out any and all tasks assigned by TWH, without complaint or refusal. This could include just about anything, and despite being in the game for a while now, you’re not sure if you would be up for this.

“Just sign the damn contract (y/n) all this is just a formality. You are technically already mine,” TWH mutters nonchalantly. You glare at him, picking up the pen to sign on the dotted line. “What if I don’t?” you challenge him.

TWH rolls his eyes, or at least you assume he does behind his sunglasses and groans audibly. “I wouldn't want you to be sent back to _Him_ only to be shot like a dog”.

You shudder internally. Technically, any member of his gang that’s of your level could replace you, but perhaps TWH requested for you personally. For what, you don’t know. Sighing deeply, you sign on the dotted line and throw the pen and paper in his direction. TWH chuckles at your aggression. “Why you, right?” he asks, with a knowing smile.

You knit your eyebrows in confusion, were you that obvious? “Yeah…” you reply.

“I didn’t ask for _you_ specifically. I asked for someone he’s willing to give up, someone with experience, ability to wield various weapons and engage in hand-to-hand combat. Preferably someone easy on the eyes too,” TWH smirks.

You roll your eyes at this, knowing you fit the bill. So you were expandable in _His_ gang then? “Can I at least know your name? I don’t feel comfortable referring to you as an acronym, if it even is one,” you ask. It’s a risky question, you would never dream of asking _Him_ what his name is, but TWH gives off a more casual vibe. Perhaps today is your lucky day.

“Oh as for the cash, it’s for you darling. A… parting gift from _Him_ ,” TWH mutters, not looking at you directly. You are dumbfounded. _He_ gave you a hundred grand? For what? Sure you were an effective and important part of _His_ gang, but wow, this much as a token of gratitude? Perhaps you had underestimated _His_ wealth and acknowledgment of your contributions. 

TWH rises from his seat, helping Jessica along with him. He motions to the other men around the room to stand as well, all of them hurriedly packing up the excess cocaine, weed and cash. “We’re leaving boys,” he instructs, striding confidently towards the double doors. The dark haired man wraps an arm around your waist on his way out and leans close to whisper in your ear.

“The name’s Tom”. 

**Author's Note:**

> So there you go! I hope you enjoyed the first chapter, please comment/kudos/bookmark to let me know if it's going well or you want me to continue. Any suggestions are always appreciated <3


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